Duty
by buttons7
Summary: Death of Alanna. There's a difference between someone who does their duty because it's required of them, and someone who does their duty because it's what they believe in. Now the Lioness must make her final, most important choice. AJ and AG undertone.


**This might seem a bit strange, but I was thinking about something completely unrelated and suddenly had the idea for the fic and acted on impulse. I've not read many stories about Alanna's death where she dies for a reason other than being a bit rubbish with the sword and so I decided to have a go myself. So please don't complain about the ambiguous setting/plot, it's meant to be more introspective than a blow by blow account of socio-political events leading up to her death. Anyway, this might be a one-shot, but then again, it might not. I'm undecided, so let us just see what the future brings!**

**Disclaimer: I disclaim, it all belongs to Tamora Pierce, and I am just borrowing.**

_In a letter from Liam Ironarm, Shang Dragon, to Lady Knight Alanna of Trebond and Olau, c. 439 HE-_

"…_The truth is we never saw death the same (like some other things), so I didn't talk about it with you. All you think of death is _ending_. To me, it's how a person goes. Dying for important things – that's better than living safe. … I often visited Tortall, though we never met there. The last two times – the first before I found you, and the second when we sailed into Port Caynn – I felt a change. Like the land when spring is coming. Bazhir talking to northerners, not fighting them. Commoners and nobles planning the future. Even you, my kitten, your great disguise – it's part of something new that centres around your Jonathan. If I can protect this beginning, I will have died a Dragon."_

She faced the warrior, sword drawn. This was not a duel: heavy plate armour disguised any movements of the man's torso which might betray his next blow. She muttered a few words under her breath, cursing the passage of years that slowed her muscles and replaced the lightning-fast reactions of her youth with the sluggishness of middle-age.

A flash of steel as her opponent's broadsword drew a silver arc in the chilly air; bearing down upon her. She twisted out of his reach, the tip of his blade just grating on the arm of her gold-washed mail shirt. _Gods, I'm getting slow_, she thought as she whipped her own weapon around her waist, feinting and stabbing, dodging bruising blows. The soldier was a head taller than she, and much heavier built, with the vigorous courage of youth on his side, a hefty sword in one hand and a dangerous mace in the other. With nimble grace she darted out of the path of another sword-strike, wincing as the ligaments of her knees protested against the exertion, and paused only momentarily to push a lock of copper-threaded grey hair from her eyes.

Battle raged on all sides, war-cries mingled with the screams of dying horses and men; the resounding note of the trumpets calling for courage and for strength. The plain was littered with the bodies of the fallen, pierced by the early rain of arrows; trampled by war-horses; maimed by steel weapons, crumpled, limp as rag-dolls and pressed into the muddy, uncaring earth. Here and there, pairs of boys crouched in the dirt, checking prone figures for signs of life, hauling the wounded onto makeshift stretchers and bearing them away from the carnage. In the thick of the fighting, amid the clash of metal and the sudden brilliant flashes of the sun on armour, the sword-play between the King's Champion and her opponent grew more violent, more deadly.

Alanna's lungs burned with every breath that she drew; she felt sweat trickling down her back and forehead despite the frigid air. He hadn't given her an opening in minutes. Desperately, she thrust her sword towards her opponent's chest, aiming for the place where two sections of his armour joined, and then swore, the cold panic that prickled the back of her neck as her sword scraped impenetrable metal was followed by white-hot pain as the warrior's blade scored her outer thigh, leaving a deep cut. With all the strength she could muster, the Lioness pulled herself backwards, out of the reach of her enemy, feeling her leg buckle beneath her and biting her lip until it bled to stop herself crying out.

Turning to face the man she was fighting, she squinted against blinding sunlight, barely able to make out more than the silhouette of his bear-like figure. Dazzlingly bright colours danced before her eyes, transfixing her, and a voice echoed in her mind,_"Be safe, lass, I don't want ye gettin' yourself killed by some jumped up bandits."_ She felt the ghost of fingers under her chin and a soft kiss on her forehead as she remembered her husband's concern when she bade him farewell before she rode out to war, only a few short weeks ago. Alanna smiled slightly at the thought of her beloved family: George, her children and grandchildren. A heavy grunt as the warrior raised his sword above his head dragged her back into reality. She side-stepped, cringing as bolts of pain shot up her leg, and raised her own sword against the heavy blow, feeling the impact of the hefty weapon in her bones.

Breathing heavily she stumbled around her opponent, forcing him to turn, blinking, into the sun. Exploiting his moment of weakness she whipped her sword around her in a butterfly cut, slicing the man's throat. He fell, instantly. Pausing to catch her breath, Alanna heard a roar behind her and spun, cursing her own folly, to meet this new assailant. Even as she swung her sword into the guard position, she knew she would not be quick enough. Gone were the days when the Lioness' blade could move faster than the eye could see.

She sensed rather than saw the sword that snaked into the gap between her body and the muscled bulk of her opponent, piercing the tender flesh under the man's arm and halting his attack. The warrior screamed with pain and flung himself towards Alanna's defender, driving his sword into the flank of the Tortallan's horse and toppling both rider and steed. The knight fell awkwardly, and gave a cry of pain as his dying mount rolled onto him, trapping his legs and hips under its glossy black body. Alanna skipped out of the way of the wounded enemy solider, gasping with the effort. She lost her footing and almost tumbled to the ground.

The warrior didn't seem to have noticed her, preoccupied as he was with the Tortallan who had saved the Lioness' life. Glancing around her, Alanna realised that the enemy side was advancing – most of the Tortallan forces had been pushed back. She and her defender were almost stranded in a sea of enemy soldiers, the nearest pocket of her allies a hundred feet away from their position.

She couldn't save the brave young man. Her leg was a dead weight, pulling her down - to go on fighting would mean certain death. "Tortall! Tortall to the Champion!" she cried, raising her sword, attracting the attention of a squad of battle-hardy soldiers. Her voice was hoarse as she rallied the men once more, already feeling the useless limb give way beneath her. She sent a silent prayer to the Goddess for the knight's sake, knowing that the Tortallan soldiers would not reach them soon enough to save the brave young man. Guilt washed over her - time and experience had taught the Champion that there were some fights she couldn't win, some people she couldn't save, but her stubborn sense of honour never quite forgave her for this painfully human weakness. Wincing, she glanced at her doomed rescuer.

Her blood ran cold as she recognised the knight who had saved her. Struggling to free himself, his leg crushed under the pain-maddened horse, Prince Roald's sapphire eyes were fearful; his jet-black hair bloodied and matted with sweat. The warrior he had injured advanced slowly, wary of the flailing hooves of the fallen destrier, the hilt of his sword clasped to his chest, the tip of the blade pointing at the ground. Panic clenched her stomach as she battled with conflicting desires.

She remembered George's concern again, _"The only thing that matters is that ye come back alive and in one piece. There are young men out there as are much better equipped to win wars than you, my lovely lioness. Let them do the fightin,' you've done enough for Tortall. Do jus' your duty and nothin' more." _She had scoffed when he had said that, pride and temper objecting to her being treated like a weak woman - she was the Lioness, a hero of Tortall! But she had seen the sincerity and the love in his expression, and she had known that he was right: death was an end that she wasn't quite ready for. Yet, somehow, she couldn't stop herself looking again at the Prince, his features quickly recalling another all-too familiar face.

A strange sense of foreboding spread through her whole being; memories tumbled through her, dancing uncontrollably like leaves in an autumn wind. She saw Jonathan lying helpless and terrified at the mercy of the sweating sickness and standing by her side as they faced the Nameless Ones. She thought of his willingness to accept her secret, to love her despite her lies; the look of gratitude in his eyes when she pushed him out of the path of an enemy arrow. She remembered comforting him as he grieved for the death of his parents – and all that those deaths brought with them. His vow to change Tortall, to create equality and opportunity, and to support her; the Shang Dragon dying to save the man he thought held the key to the future - the memories raced through her, unbidden but powerful and moving. Jonathan's status was a part of him, a part that she had accepted, come what may, from the moment that she accepted his friendship. Through all the long years of his reign, she had protected him - so how could she desert him now? How could she look Jon in the eye knowing that she had allowed his son - the vehicle of all their hopes and dreams, the man whom he had chosen as his successor - to die?

_I swore fealty to him, until death and after, I swore to serve him and his heirs with all that I possess. _Fear constricted her throat, fear and a deep, keening sorrow. _I can't ignore that. I can't betray my King – my best friend. _She swallowed and gritted her teeth, fighting the pain as she got to her feet. Raising violet eyes skywards, she shifted her grip on the sword-hilt. _Perhaps I wanted to grow old and tired, to die peacefully in the arms of my beloved. But perhaps I sacrificed that death the day that I chose to become a knight. After all these years, Liam was right about dying. _Her eyes pricked slightly_. My duty is to what I believe in, to the man with whom I delivered a new era. My duty is to protect that future. If I use my death well, I have done that duty. _

Raising her blade, she turned her attention to the man who stood above Roald. She imagined dancing hazel eyes, dulled with sadness and confusion. _I'm sorry, George, _she thought. Stepping forward, she pushed her sword in front of her body, putting herself between the Prince and the warrior. With a grim smile she fixed her opponent with her purple gaze. She would at least deny him the satisfaction of living to claim the death of the Lioness. Too weak to parry the blows of his blade she dropped all her defenses, throwing her strength into a last thrust of her sword, just as his weapon swung towards her in a terrible checkmate. Courage brought a strange sensation of invincibility, even as she anticipated the end; knowing already the cold bite of steel.

"For Tortall," she whispered.

**Any thoughts? Good, bad, ugly? You know the button to press. If, for some reason, you don't it's just down there on the bottom left of the screen. Please review!**


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